Clatterings and Splatterings
by dreams.of.destiny
Summary: America, England, Russia, China, Belarus, Ukraine, Germany, Japan, Prussia, Switzerland, Liechtenstein, Hungary, AND Hong Kong walk into a bar. Naturally, all hell breaks loose. Actually, it's just a song meme including the above characters. Feel cheated.


author: dreams of destiny

~everyone loves a song meme! everyone loves it so!

you play nine songs then you shuffle around and you let the writing flow!

**hetalia**

[ SONG MEME ]

clatterings and splatterings

x

x

x

**SONG: so sick ; ARTIST: ne-yo ; CHARACTERS: US, UK**

The war had been fought. He'd lost. The rain pounds against his house, pounds against his soul, his heart. He has lost, the Great Britain has lost to a newborn nation. A newborn nation that he had raised to adulthood.

_All your children will turn on you_.

He shakes his head, trying to get the voice out. But it is true. America is young and inexperienced (and those damnable eyes draw him in: 'Freedom,' the other cries, 'Freedom,' and America is given freedom) and England loves the boy with all of his heart. He doesn't know if it's a father-son love, or a brother-brother love. He simply...doesn't know.

America is his first child.

The rain is still falling, and it's only now that he realizes you don't win wars through weapons or spies or money. He has lost the war, yet he had more of all of that.

No; you lose and win wars in the heart.

**SONG: circle circle dot dot ; ARTIST: jamie kennedy ; CHARACTERS: prussia, hungary**

She's in the kitchen when he arrives 'home'. It's not his home; it's hers and Austria's.

Austria; Prussia's nose wrinkles and he feels his mouth curling into a sneer as he thinks of the other nation: he's weaker, more elegant, and less _manly_. Which brings him to the point of the boy-turned-woman right in front of him. She's humming while she's cooking, and he doesn't find that the apron and bun suit her at all.

Heck, the long hair doesn't suit her (but he likes the fact that now he has something else he can tug in their fights).

"Prussia?" She instantly whirls around and--

SPLACK.

The food in the frying pan just goes _flying_ and he has no idea what the hell hit him except for the fact that it's freakin' hot.

"FUCK!" he shrieks (manishly, of course), scrabbling backward desperately in an attempt to catch hold of something, anything.

"Oh my god!" Hungary's voice is a bit lower (dammit!) than his, and he finds his wrist being snatched by her calloused hands as she grabs a towel and neatly wiped the soup-come-slotther off his face. It's only then that he realizes she's saved him from falling into the definitely-putrid-smelling sink. His face turns red at the fact that she's the one saving his wimpy ass.

Hungary, of course, is too _manly_ to notice such subtle gestures.

"I'm sorry," she says instead, handing him another towel (that smells really feminine, which means that it's Austria's) to wips his face on. He scowls, but uses it nonetheless.

"What were you doing here anyways?" she continues as soon as his got every last drop off his face.

"Well, I was going to invade Aus--I mean, your house, but then your crazy cooking leapt up and attacked me," he says nonchalantly. Just like a boy, Hungary colors in anger and smacks him (albeit lightly, meaning she's in a good mood) over the head with the frying pan.

"Great; now you've got more paste in my hair," he mutters, reaching a gloved hand upwards to swipe whatever he can off.

Hungary, in a true act of _manliness_, reaches forward to sweep off a large portion of the stew-slash-paste off of his hair. As if to say: 'It's not paste', he then proceeds to stick a paste-covered finger in his mouth.

Hi--her--Hungary's face contorts, and just as Prussia's about to gloat about the terrible cooking, the other country says:

"Your hair tastes funny."

**SONG: hello, hello ; ARTIST: sr-71 ; CHARACTERS: hongkong, china, uk**

Visitation rights.

That is what he is reduced to as of now.

England clutches his fists; his anger and temper is on the rise, but he knows it's only fair. Hong Kong is not his child. He is China's child. China is the one who will take care of him to the end, and it shouldn't matter whether or not England took good care of the boy for oh, only an entire century or so.

It doesn't matter right now though. He's allowed to visit (China's only returning the favor, after all) and he'll make the best of it.

Right.

"Ni-Hao, England-aru!" China greets cheerily, Hong Kong in tote. England forces himself to bow the _asian_ way, and bites back a sneer when Hong Kong and China do the same.

China releases his hold on Hong Kong, but Hong Kong does not do the same. England tries to remember mistreating Hong Kong, hell, mistreating any of his children. But nothing comes to mind, and he's left with the sinking realization that Hong Kong has never liked him. He clutches a hand to his chest; it hurts, it hurts, dammit.

"No. You're supposed to be with England right now. Show some respect to your foster parents-aru," China is teasing and gentle but firm all the same, and England can't help but be impressed when Hong Kong lets go and goes towards him.

And then he realizes that this is where the two of them belong.

England is welcome, but this is not home.

He embraces Hong Kong warmly, one last time, before turning heel and leaving.

_Good-bye_.

**SONG: sauvez le monde ; ARTIST: mc solaar ; CHARACTERS: russia, china, US**

Russia wakes up to the call of winter. It wraps itself around his sheets and kisses his eyelids until they are too cold to stay closed. The sounds of the wind blow through his ears and his eyes open to see the blue and white of the winter, summer, spring, and fall snows.

He is always one to wake with a smile.

But now?

Now, the winter comes later, and sometimes, he even has to stay awake at night in order to hear the pitter and patter of thousands of snowflakes gathering at his doorstep. It is then that he realizes he cannot sleep without the cold.

One day, the snow does not come.

Russia calls up China immediately, but the other Communist nation's answer is simply a "Well of course-aru! It's summer!" And it is summer and what China says is true. But that doesn't mean Russia will not wake to the kiss of snow.

He calls America right after, but the other doesn't seem to understand the problem. He speaks of less rain, animals dying, the economy going down. He does not understand _why_ Russia could possibly want snow. He does not understand why anyone would expect snow.

Russia will not accuse anyone.

Perhaps the snow will come on its own.

Until then, he cannot sleep.

Perhaps obliterating all of the other countries (who are so obviously stealing his snow) would help.

He smiles and gets to work.

**SONG: rakuen ; ARTIST: do as infinity ; CHARACTERS: switzerland, liechtenstein**

Liechtenstein closes her eyes to hum a melody. The swing in the front porch is just installed, and Switzerland doesn't seem to mind the very girl accessory. She loves her older brother because he is so kind to her. Once, Austria asked her if she was happy. She didn't think at all before replying: "Of course!".

And how can she not be happy?

Older brother is here to be kind and loving and caring to whatever she could possibly want.

There are skirts to be sewn, meals to be prepared, things to be bargained over. She is not a princess, and yet she still feels like one. Once, he hair rivalled Hungary's (the one whom Austria is married to), but now it's as short as onii-sama's. And she rather likes it.

Switzerland likes it as well.

Simple pleasures, simple moments, simple things: what else could you possibly want in Paradise?

**SONG: oyayubi no tsukaikata ; ARTIST: aiko ; CHARACTERS: prussia, germany**

The day wakes and he wakes with it. Germany sees a face in the mirror, but it is not his face. Surely a night filled with nightmares couldn't leave him with such a...such a..._disgusting_ image.

Without thinking, he smashes a brutal fist into the mirror, without care of consequences or reason. Naturally, the mirror breaks, and he sees there to be bars behind. Iron-cast bars (some of it is rusty, he wonders if he graws at it enough, will they be able to meet, to see each other again?) are what separate him and his brother.

It's futile, he knows. It's absolutely hopeless, and maybe it was a bad idea to invade Russia, maybe it was a bad idea to get the other country so _pissed off_ that he wouldn't be satisfied with utterly humiliating defeat but he needed land as well.

It really hurts him, which is what Russia wanted in the first place.

In that respect, the colder nation has easily won.

Germany feels as if a part of his heart, a part of his flesh, has been literally ripped away. And for all intensive purposes, it might as well have been.

Through the bars that Russia has cast, he strains his hand in an attempt to reach through them, reach over them, reach anywhere but here. That's what he aims to do, at least.

But it's a failure, there is no chance of success (he is beaten and broken and yet still breathing in his country, in his land--this is the greatest humiliation of them all) and yet he will still try. Germany twists his wrist, grabbles and pulls, bends and turns whichever what way, all in an attempt to unlock a door, break some bars, accomplish _something_.

Nothing happens.

Except. The pain. It continues. He hates himself for being so weak, he hates Russia for forcing this on him (does the aggressor really deserve this much retribution...?), and he hates, he hates.

He hates that stupid voice that comes with that overrated smile; that shrinking figure but growing ego. Those red eyes that were always shrewd, and that _personality_. They're all gone, they've all been taken from him (along with the person and what was left of him). Now, he is Russia's property, and will be until Germany can break the bars.

Prussia.

Prussia, his brother, is on the other side.

He might be a bastard, he might be racist, he might be a loser, but he was definitely not a traitor. Germany swore to himself, his land, his people: it didn't matter if it took two years or twenty centuries, he would persevere. He would see Prussia again.

He might be beaten, but he is still breathing, there is still hope. His heart still beats with a steady pulse, and the rhythm of his own chest is strangely soothing.

Probably because elsewhere, he knows that Prussia's heart is doing the same, and his brother will continue to be foolish and loud and _cocky_ until there's nothing left to brag about and no one left to talk to.

A grimace warps into a smile; he promises he'll be the last one standing so Prussia will never stop.

**SONG: chou ; ARTIST: amano tsukiko ; CHARACTERS: china, germany, japan**

World of War. War of the Worlds. The Second Great Conflict.

So many names, so many titles, so much time for the chessmasters in between.

China staggers home, he's bleeding at the leg, the hip, the waist, and nothing the pandas say or do will stop it. Japan is the one at fault, and he wants to tell the other one to stop, he wants the other one to feel his pain three times over.

He is powerful, he is immortal. Everyone else will fade over time, but his people, his people alone, they will survive the bloodshed, the hunger, the famine, the war. He shudders, inwardly, ducking under a fallen beam of the old-ancient house. This is a terrible war. He rather likes tea and pandas and the countryside songs.

China loves his people, dearly. He's certain every country does.

He also knows whats best for them, and this technology, these new "advancements", they are not good at all. Advancements, the Westerners call them. Improvement, Japan says. Soon, Korea will follow, and he'll be forced into the ride, or thrown to the side like a shameful puppet. But what is it really? People are dying because of these new things, people are dying much faster and so much more horribly because of these sort of advancements in "technology".

The choice, it is in his hands.

Either way, millions of his people will die. By whose hands is the question.

He buries himself inside his arms, letting his sleeves keep his hopeless sob down. He's curled in a ball, the wood around him and the world around him is rotting continually and it's in this manner that Japan finds him.

His former student's eyes are tinged with something he's all too familiar with: bloodlust. China wishes he could cry out, make any sound at all in order to _snap his friend out of it_, but he's too far gone--they're both too far gone. Japan kneels down, cups his chin, kisses him-hard. He draws a knife, and China cannot do anything.

His people are going to die.

He loves them.

His people are going to be killed by Japan.

He cannot allow his people to kill themselves.

Japan runs the knife down his back; he feels the full force of his decision as much as he feels the pain.

His people will die, regardless.

_But he loves them and therefore, cannot kill them_.

"What's going on?" a male voice interrupts. Wood creaks, the world turns to stare. China doesn't bother lifting his head, but Japan does. He feels the blood run down his back, down his legs, he feels Japan leaving, words being exchanged.

"Are you alright?" the stranger asks in horribly strung together words. On a normal day, China would've laughed at the blatant mispronunciation and lack of grammar. But suddenly, he's swept up and off the floor by the stranger with blonde hair. A Westerner; he should've known.

And yet--it feels oddly comforting.

He closes his eyes to the sight of the dawn cracking through the beams of the broken wood; the world may be broken, but there is still hope. He is immortal and therefore, his people will live.

**SONG: seasons in the sun ; ARTIST: westlife ; CHARACTERS: russia, belarus, ukraine**

Once, they would go together to the fields and pick flowers. The field had many flowers of many kinds--except for sunflowers. There would be daisies and dandelions and dewdrops and peonies. There would be small flowers and big flowers and happy-looking-flowers and the kind of flowers that someone (Belarus of course) said would look good on Estonia. And then her younger brother and sister would laugh at the thought.

After all, Estonia would rather freeze over and burn before having flowers in his hair.

Ukraine would chuckle with her siblings, and they would be happy. Sometimes, if Belarus was feeling particularly happy (in other words, Russia agreed to play with her that day), she would allow her older sister to braid her hair, adding in the flowers of her choosing. Belarus will give snide comments here and there and -right- before Ukraine is finished, she'll leap up, for she's spotted Russia and there is a wedding certificate to sign.

Ukraine will call after her baby sister, _What about your hair_?

And Belarus, like any petulant child, will answer with, _Later_!

Later does indeed come. But that 'later' is just the 'later' of another 'later'. Ukraine smiles at the assortment of wildflowers in her lap. Although Belarus and Russia are not the most easy to please, she's glad she's somewhere, something in the hearts of both her siblings.

If there is one thing Ukraine needs more than food and water and air, it's her siblings. She loves Belarus and Russia so much sometimes; she loves it when they're happy, hates it when they're sad. Which is why she cries when she hears Belarus has suffered great setbacks in industrialization, when she hears of the starvation in the countryside of Russia, when she learns that Germany has tried to invade Russia.

The world seems to literally be coming apart at the seams, and all she can do for her siblings is farm. More food, more food, more food, Russia urges. And it makes sense: more food feeds more people means that less people will have to starve.

But the food is going away faster than she can produce it.

It's going away faster than normal to feed the machine--no, the beast that they call _war_.

Ukraine will work and work and work until her muscles are torn and blood evaporated and bones scattered to the wind. And after that, she promises, she will still work. Anything, as long as her siblings will not be fed to the war.

Someday, she wants to go back to that field. Someday, she wants to pick daisies and dandelions and dewdrops and peonies and braid them all in Belarus' long, silky hair. And then, maybe the two of them can plot to somehow get the flowers into Russia's hair. And the three of them can laugh and joke and be happy with life.

She thinks about looking for that elusive sunflower; the sacred flower that seems to only come in summer.

Summer; so far away.

Ukraine has dreams, has hopes, has prayers as well.

But for now, she simply digs her hoe into the ground, tears soaking in, though she knows the salt will not help.

**SONG: close up ; ARTIST: froufrou ; CHARACTERS: russia, china**

Everyone knows what they do at night. The table of people are somber, silent, seething. They know what it is that is taking place in these twilight, evening, midnight, rendezvous'. They know, but they do not know what to do.

And what can they do?

China smiles and Russia cannot see it, but he can feel the curve of the other nation's cheek against his own. Their flesh is warm, newly awakened, recently-currently touched. Skilled fingers trace patterns (writing, perhaps?) down the larger nation's bare back. A shiver runs through Russia's spine, and China chuckles, dipping his head so that Russia's shoulder cradled his forehead.

"This is madness, aru," the asian country whispers. His fingers do not stop, do not slow down even.

They continue with their tracings, slow--_sensual_.

"Ah? Is the little Asian country suddenly...scared?" Russia asks in a mocking manner, tilting his head as if asking a small child rather than a person easily twice his age. China blinks once, then scowls. The delicate touches become the harsh raking of nails against skin. Russia doesn't wince, rather, he smiles at the small pinprick of pain.

Delightful.

In a flash, China is sprawled across the bed, eyes widening more in disbelief than fear, and Russia is towering directly overhead. Blonde hair brushes by the side of his face and a clear drawl is heard:

_I can make you hurt like no tomorrow_.

Vodka is in the air, a childish glint (like a madman, China supposes) in Russia's eyes, and a returning threat on the tip of China's tongue.

_I'll make you too scared to try_.

What can the others do? They will think, they will whisper, they will suggest. But what will they do?

When Russia closes in, eyes open, frighteningly-clear-blue meeting darkening-dark-brown, China knows the answer. His lips are captured before he can say either answer or question, but the sensation does not make him forget. No, this will be something he will use to his advantage.

The others will do, can do, _nothing_.


End file.
